No Safe House

Thirty-nine

“Hello?”

“Reggie.”

“I’m kind of busy right now, Unk. Let me call you back in a few—”

“He called me.”

“What? Who called you? What are you talking about?”

“He knows.”

“Who? Who knows what?”

“Quayle.”

“Jesus. Just hang on a second. I’m coming out of the coffee shop. Let me get into the car. Hang on. Okay, I’m in. Start over.”

“Quayle phoned me. Just now. He knows it’s me.”

“There’s no way. Eli never told him. I’m sure of that. He— Shit!”

“What?”

“I just spilled some hot coffee in my lap. Unk, I don’t get it. How would Quayle make the connection?”

“Quayle hired a detective. Eli must have called him once to sound him out about a deal, but when he never called back, Quayle wanted to find him. So he got a private detective to look for him.”

“What did Quayle say? Exactly. What did he say, exactly, Unk?”

“He said he knew it was me. Said he should have known all along. Reggie, he must have done a deal with Eli after all.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t got her in his actual possession, but the detective does. Quayle said they’re checking for fingerprints. That they’re going to look for my fingerprints.”

“That sounds like bullshit, Unk. It’s a trick. He’s trying to set you up.”

“What if he isn’t? If they find my fingerprints, they’ll go to the police. I’ll be arrested. And then they’ll find out about Eli, about what happened to him.”

“Let me think, let me think. If we knew who the detective was—”

“He told me.”

“What?”

“He told me the detective’s name. Duggan. Heywood Duggan. I looked him up in the book. He’s a real private detective.”

“Well, hell, you got an address, Unk?”